Macabre Reflection
by Spyre
Summary: The Joker is a success at what he does: mayhem. And you can't have mayhem without victims! But what if a victim becomes a monster bent on revenge? Joker/OFC.
1. info

**title :** macabre reflection

**author :** spyre

**genre : **drama, angst

**rating :** m (language, violence, drug use)

**pairing :** joker/oc

**summary :** The Joker has changed the face of every illegal business, has made a name for himself. And Jurni? She's just a drug runner who gets caught in the game.

**disclaimer :** the bat-verse characters are not mine. i make no profit for this.

**notes :** incomplete. no beta. "the dark knight" universe.


	2. jurni meet joker

Jurni stared into the mirror, didn't see her reflection. The drugs ran through her veins, a bad batch. She knew it from the moment she injected. She'd made a mistake. Her mind should have raced, gone forward, gone mad with worry. She should panic, shouldn't she? She should feel something. But no. No reaction, just an awareness.

Her mother had done the best she could. She'd worked two jobs. She left Jurni with her grandmother. They were all just people, trying to make it in a city corrupt and unforgiving of its outcasts. They were outcasts. Jurni was a bastard, didn't know the first thing about her father. Sometimes, she questioned even being her mother's child. Everyone seemed so different from her, like they were reading from a manual she'd never received. A book on how to live. How to behave. How to be. Normal.

She'd run away about four months ago. Her grandmother had caught her with the narcotics she'd been selling. There'd been a lecture, a good smack across the face. Nothing she didn't deserve. Jurni was always trying to ruin the good things. She didn't know why. She knew the difference between "right" and "wrong", but she longed to provoke, to pick at scabs, to push things to the breaking point.

Seeing the waste, the bare disappointment, on her mother's face was too much. She left with a dufflebag of clothes and no money. She had to remove herself from her Saint Mother. There were no answers in the misery of the woman who'd given her everything. She couldn't bring herself to torture her mother anymore.

Something wormed its way into her conscience, however.

Something her Saint Mother had said during that last fight. It chilled her only now as the innocuous anger seeped away and left her reflective. The heat of the argument had made her unreceptive, but now…

"You won't even tell me who he is, or who he was! I might have brothers or sisters or whatever out there, somewhere to go but here! Why won't you tell me who he was!"

"I can't. I can't," was all Saint Mother would say, tears welled up in her widening eyes, memories echoed in their depths.

"For me? For me you won't! I don't get you. I can't live like this, not knowing…"

She shook her head, overcome finally with the emotions, "I didn't know who he was. It wasn't my choice. He left and then he came back. He came back after you were born. He took your brother and he left us."

"You're lying!" she screamed, unable to process the confession, "I don't want to hear it."

She'd been so stupid. She'd left. But now, she felt shame. Her mother never lied. She just didn't ever tell her the truth. She evaded questions, postponed explanations. This story of a… rape, was it? A brother stolen?

Whatever the truth was, she couldn't go back. She'd just make her mother cry more. She'd tear down their home. Until she found her place, herself, she could never go back. Like a wrecking ball. It was the best for them all.

She quit the drugs for the first couple of months. Of course, her friends kept on pushing. And she had enjoyed them. Why not? She started selling again, making lots of money. She got a place with a roommate, another seller. Things started to get a regular routine. Then, the Joker showed up.

The whole face of the industry changed. The top dogs began getting shot all to hell, power shifted. Soon enough, Jurni found herself recruited into a new drug chain with new bosses. She was just a runner, but a good one with a nose for trouble. She'd never had a deal go bad. And she wasn't desperate for money at this point, so she never got into a pickle or had motive to change suppliers.

Then, the stories started. Stories about how buyers were getting' bad batches. The prices shot up when people started OD'ing. It wouldn't be long 'til the source was found, but for now… business was hard and dangerous.

A lot of them whispered about the Joker guy having a hand in it. He seemed bent on creating chaos for no discernible reason. A real mad man. Hearing on the news about the Joker's violent business exploits and listening to the rumors of sadomasochistic dungeon parties in his honor, Jurni knew she never wanted to meet the man.

But, for now, staring into her haggard reflection, the threat of the Joker was a distant thought. One of a few, floaty ideas that bumped inside her head. She was less and less aware of her surroundings until all she saw was a face that looked like hers, blank, staring back. Everything blurred. The pounding stopped, finally. The door swung open, knocking her off her feet. She fell back in slow motion, her spine crashing against the edge of the bathtub, the rings on the shower curtain popping off one by one as she gripped the curtain and fell with a thump to the cold laminate floor.

As soon as she was able to shake away the spiderwebs from her vision, she blinked over and over until she could make out the figure of a man standing over her, facing the toilet and taking out his pecker. He had stringy hair and a messed up face. He pissed at the toilet, missing half of the time. The sound of the piss hitting the waterbowl was abnormally loud in her ears. And then she felt her heartbeat, thready, failing.

What a way to die. Watching a man take a piss not a foot from her. He was standing between her legs, to be exact. Like she wasn't there.

He finished with a satisfied grunt and sigh, looking over at her with dark eyes. Madness.

It was him. She cocked her head to the side to get a better look. He did the same, following her movement like a curious dog.

"Hello," he greeted her in an amused voice. He didn't smile, but his mouth was curved up. Scars.

She didn't say anything back. She couldn't. She just kept thinking that this was a strange way to go.

"You look… sick," he peeled and gave a laugh. He crouched down, close to her. Her ears rang and buzzed, as if she could hear the incandescent lights burn.

He was out of focus and his words echoed unnaturally. She unhinged her jaw and replied with a hoarse, scream-worn voice, "You, too."

She died then. She thought. It was pretty peaceful. She had to admit. Like going to sleep.

She woke up.

To a massive headache and a wonderful high feeling. Drugs.

She looked around her. She was in a lounge or something, a commercial conference room. There was a Hispanic guy there, too, typing on a laptop and talking on the phone.

He looked at her. She noticed then that she was sitting upright, wearing a black dress she'd never seen before.

"Good, you're back to the land of the living. Here," he slid her the brown paper package, "This is the merch. And you will ask for Darren McAvoy. He's the buyer. They have tight security."

She was slow to understand. She only understood his words after a minute or so passed and she was holding the package. Wasn't she supposed to be in that apartment, dead or something?

"Through that door," he nodded to the double doors made of some fake mahogany, "You've got about twenty minutes left."

She stood up, numb but feeling fine otherwise. Maybe sore, like she'd done too many crunches. She felt her stomach. It was tender. Looking around as she walked out, she caught sight of a mask. A white, clown face next to the man's laptop, discarded.

She left without knowing why. Outside, a party was going on. A foyer at a hotel or something. It was mostly white people dressed in black. She didn't fully understand everything, yet. She knew she felt an urgency to get away. And she felt fear now, building. Something was wrong. She looked down at the package.

A hand stopped her from going any further into the large room. She glanced into the face of a large, burly bodyguard type. He took the package from her, waved a wand. It beeped once, a green light showed and he let her through into the throng. What was the guy's name that she was supposed to ask for? She felt nauseous, worried for some reason. She gave up trying to make sense of it and made a beeline for what could be the ladies restroom. It was, for the handicapped. She didn't care. She locked the door behind her, muffling the voices.

She tossed the box onto the sink counter and stared at herself in the mirror. She looked awful. Skinny. Like a drug addict. Her long, brown hair was dull and her eyes were empty. She didn't recognize the reflection. With her hand on her stomach, she began to feel worse. The Joker had something to do with this. That had been him in the bathroom. How insane a coincidence had that been? The menace that she'd seen there.

With a sinking feeling, she pressed harder on her abdomen. There. Her breath caught in her teeth. And her heart clenched.

She lifted her dress. No underwear. Higher. There. Bloody. New stitches. Ugly and wide across her stomach. And something lodged under her skin. She freaked out. Clawed at the device. She'd heard of this only once before. A bomb.

Tears, unbidden, and a scream, swallowed. She dug at the stitches. The pain was dulled by whatever they'd shot her up with. Frantic, she searched with watery eyes. And found the trash bin. Without hesitation or second thought to what she was about to do. She smashed the mirror and grabbed the biggest piece. And cut.

She extracted the box and wires with a scream. Until there was pounding on the door. There, covered in her blood, it blinked at her. She ran to the toilet and dropped it in, flushing it. She didn't feel pain, only pressure relieved. She saw the blood running everywhere. The small box disappeared into the pipes, wires trailing after.

The door gave way. Sirens sounded in the distance. Several men in suits flooded into the restroom. She could no longer stand. She felt the wet of the blood on her face as she collapsed into the scarlet puddles. She knew she was about to lose consciousness. Maybe this time, it'd be the real deal. Maybe this time, she'd die. Somehow, that brought her peace.

"It got lodged in a u-bend halfway down."

"That explains why the casualties were so low," Gordon noted absently.

They were on the way to the hospital. The story had come through about the victim, the wounds she bore. The package on the counter. It was the Joker. But why Darren McAvoy? And who was the girl? Was it a message or just another sick prank? Probably both, if Commissioner Gordon knew the Joker's MO as well as he thought.

Weirdly enough, she was going to survive. They'd put some serious drugs into her. That had actually saved her. Why the drugs, though? Were they really necessary to do the job? Too many puzzle pieces just yet to start trying to figure things out.

She came-to days later, feeling hollow and used up. Sober. Sore. The memories were a jumble, too fractured to make sense. She didn't remember anything. Not OD'ing, not the Joker, not the bomb or the hotel.

Much to Gordon's ever-patient chagrin.

His prodding brought flashes, images, but nothing she could clamp onto. It left her exhausted and frustrated. She hadn't liked the visit. He didn't come after the first, the two detectives assigned to the case returned. Maybe she'd remembered something. But, she hadn't.

Just the nightmares were left. Incoherent, terrifying. Leaving her in a freezing sweat and tired all the time.

It was past midnight. Before dawn. He came.

"Wake up, wake up," harsh whispers. He pulled out the needles, jumped up on the bed and grabbed her face between his hands.

She blinked her eyes open, blurry, then focused onto a painted face. Crooked grin, scars welted up across his cheeks, and black eyes sparkling.

Stringy hair hanging down like a green, greasy frame.

And it started coming back to her. It must've showed in her expression.

"Ah, I see you remember. But why," he shook her head until her brain rattled a little, "why, oh, why didn't you tell the cops?"

She wanted it to be a nightmare. His breath was spicy, like a pepper and cinnamon, blowing across her face. He licked his lips and gave a quiet laugh, looked around like he was afraid of being caught. Then he got serious, "It's not like you have loyalty. You cut it out of you! Yourself. I'm impressed."

The memories flooded in, clearer than ever, making sense, too much sense. The shock began to subside, giving way to fury.

"Oooh, but it's hard to impress me."

The weight of him straddling her pressed into her wounds. She felt them at a distance, through her anger. No one used her like he had. She restrained herself, waiting for the moment.

He slid his hands from her face to her neck, where he squeezed for a short time. She didn't react. Didn't reach up. He ran his hands further down, his eyes growing a little wider, his breath a little faster, "It takes a disturbed individual to hurt themselves like that."

Again, the tongue flicking out to his lips. She ground her teeth together as he traced her breasts through the hospital gown. Squeezed the warm, soft flesh there.

His eyes left hers, drifting down, "I want to see it, but that's not what I'm here for…"

Now. She grabbed a chunk of his hair and yanked his head forward and down onto the side rail. The sound was like a busted watermelon. The adrenaline pumped through her and she hip-tossed him, tearing stitches, she knew. She got halfway from his grasp when she felt the knife at her throat. She had the nurse's button pressed firmly in her fist. Her breath came shallow.

He was laughing. The skin had broken on his forehead. Little damage.

The knife gave her pause, but she was at a turning point. Something in her snapped. She didn't care. She brought the morphine drip stand down on him. She wriggled away. His blade cut her pretty bad, but she was out of his grasp, slow, wounded and weak from bed rest. She was in no shape to fight. He knew it, too. Still he smiled. No nurses came to the rescue.

"You just seem a glutton for pain. Tell me, are you seeing anyone… special?"

He was now standing over her and she was struggling to stand, too. The front of her paper-thin gown was streaked with red from her throat and from her dressings. He grabbed for it, missed as she stumbled away, out of the room, falling back onto her bare ass. The hospital was empty, silent. The nurse's desk was occupied only by two guys in clown masks, waiting. For him.

And the cop that'd been set to watch her. Dead just outside the door. The Joker silhouetted the doorframe, toying with the blade in his hand.

"I'm done playing with you here. Shall we go somewhere… less public? More... intimate?" he annunciated every syllable. She understood this as a bad sign. Irritation? Excitement? She fought her way from her ass to her knees. She was going to stand. She was going to…

He simply walked forward, grabbed her hair and pulled her off her knees. She screamed in anger as he dragged her towards the elevator. The doors were already open.

She spread her legs until she braced against the entrance, stopping their progress into the elevator. Stubborn. Angry.

He sighed and nodded to one of his masked henchmen. The blow came from the back of a pistol to the back of her head. She was out.

The Joker let her fall to the floor, let his guys handle the weight. He straightened his vest and shirt, examined his bloody knife. He never made plans. He'd come here thinking it was going to be a little fun, a kill, too. Now, he didn't want to kill her. Just have fun. For now. The doors shut and they started their descent.


	3. joker meet jurni

He shut the door, remained there, listening. No one was going to interrupt. He crept to her bedside and pressed himself close to her ear. He petted her limp hair as she slept, connected to machines that insured her recovery.

He peeked under the cotton sheets at her naked form. The scars were bruised, covering most of her body. Her breasts cupped in blossoming purple from the trauma.

The stitches weren't the neat ones from the hospital. She'd ruined those.

He blew a hot breath onto her skin and then turned his mouth so that she could hear, "I'm going to have them make you beautiful. You deserve it after all. I don't think it was fear that kept you quiet. Well, I'll give you reason, sweet-heart. You will know me for what I am."

He gave a nervous laugh, excitement filling him at the prospect, "I could do this alone, yes. Let's see, though. Let's see what I can do with you… and then, I'll make more beautiful experiments to burn this city in its own filth."

She was unconscious. They say you're aware even then. She wasn't, though. Blackness claimed her mind. She needed the recovery. The last forty-eight hours had done hell to her.

She didn't have her own room for long; a storage closet had better use than a patient's room. So, she was moved out into the warehouse space where cots were lined up amid boxes and shelves.

Headquarters for a madman.

Strange mobiles hung from the ceiling. The windows were blocked out. Fluorescent lighting stayed on around the clock.

She was tended to by a very normal looking nurse, a male. College student zombie type. He was gentle with her, spared her no comfort.

It took two weeks before she woke for the first time. She was in and out then, like a dial on a TV set. Fuzzy.

As she slept, the city went on without her. The Joker didn't appear. Just the nurse, a dark-haired, mid-twenties Asian American with a kind, intense face.

She began to eat on her own after the first month.

Strength returned to her rapidly then. Her mind was clearer than it had ever been, for lack of drugs. She felt safe. Well, she wanted to feel safe. There was nothing else she could do. It was as if she talked herself into believing she was in a normal hospital. She ignored a lot of reality during that time.

Funny what the mind is capable of when it comes to survival.

She couldn't piss or shit on her own. She had to have help. Sometimes she just couldn't hold it. Sometimes no one was around. This didn't distress her at first, but it started to become annoying. She got stronger. Soon, she didn't let anyone help her. She didn't think of anything beyond sleep, the next meal and relieving herself.

Two months saw her fully recovered, walking around, not talking to anyone that lingered. Transients. Very few of them she saw more than a handful of times. She was stark sober, and ignoring her situation. She just started to work out her body, stretches and exercises. She arranged things into boxes, organized objects. Some of them were weapons and ammo, some were toys and tools. No one bothered her or showed concern for what she chose to do.

But she was watched. She refused to accept it. She had a shadow or two. In shifts, they watched her. She didn't know why. They never interfered.

Then, one night, she went to sleep. And she woke up somewhere else.

Her mind would never be the same.

The room was small, padded, and there were three men and one woman. That shine in their eyes, that void. Madness. She recognized it in their blank expressions and in their grins. Violence. They came for her. At first, she wanted it to be a dream.

It was a dream. It had to be.

No, she'd been doing this to herself too long. This was reality. She could no longer hide. It was the moment of survival. There was no room for pretty pictures. And like a shot from a .45, she was back in herself. Sane. Clear-headed. And she felt something. Fear. Rage.

How was she killing them? In the blur of activity, she finally noticed what they'd done. She'd blocked it out. The horror of it. They'd taken her arms from the elbows to her hands. They'd given her metallic replacements, terrible figures that could only be described as spidery, metal digits. They were her weapons. Covered in blood.

With the abominations they'd attached to her body, she brought pain until two were dead and two were lacerated cowards in the corner. She stood panting, shaking and looking at them. Then she stared at her new arms. And cried in rage. She could cry. Too much had happened. She didn't want to know this was real. She wanted to go back to ignoring the truth.

The door swung open and they didn't waste time pinning her with the taser. She fell to her knees, tears dried up instantly. Fury flooded through her. They approached. Too soon.

She escaped the padded room over their screams. A monster. They'd made her a monster. And why did she like it? How could she appreciate it so soon? Too soon.

She laughed as she ran. She didn't know where she was going. She didn't know the building, but voices trailed after her from the other cells. A madhouse? The stairs. The fire exit. She was gone. So easily.

Detective Earn stretched his body as best he could in the confines of the car. He was tired of junk food and tired of this watch. It had been Commissioner Gordon's idea, a personal quest, to set up police surveillance on every nuthouse in the city limits. He sighed, wondering how much longer it'd be until Vincent came back with the coffee and cigarettes.

He turned the volume down on the radio. Just then, he heard the laughter tear past him. He jerked his head around to see. A blur from an alleyway adjacent to the asylum. And then a couple of guys ran after with guns drawn.

Earn grabbed the radio and made the call, giving a last look towards the drug store where Vincent had gone inside.

"Dispatch, dispatch, 498. We've got three suspects on foot running south on Van Hopper. Two appear to be armed with handguns and wearing white masks…"

"What's up?" came a voice from the passenger side. Earn jumped and swore. Vincent.

"Get in. We've got some trouble."

Vincent's surprised face showed through the window a split second before he opened the door and got in with coffee and a plastic sack.

It hadn't been just a few months. Had it? She must've been out of it for longer than that. What had changed since she'd gone under? Where was her mother? Her grandmother? Why had they done this? Thoughts ran through her head at random as she sprinted through the streets, not winded but exhilarated. She felt powerful. Not afraid. Just a little confused, trying to make sense of what she'd missed. What she'd deleted from her memory.

What had they done to her besides the arms? Why wasn't she getting tired? She looked back to see she'd lost her pursuers. She slowed to a stop and waited. But no one came. She heard sirens in the distance.

"Okay, there. Rewind. From that frame to the last one. Play that. Try to sharpen it up."

"It's digital, so it should… be easier…" They all stared at the video that the camera in the car had recorded of the bizarre chase.

"What is that? What's she carrying?" The four of them watched as her arms swung, something catching the light.

They were in the review room, dimmer than the rest of the department. Screens lined two walls and computers filled the rest of the space beneath them. Pictures printed off were plastered on cork boards for the rest of the room. Four men stood crouched over the newest visual of last night's incident.

They hadn't been able to hold onto the two with the guns. And they hadn't had cause to go into the Van Hopper asylum. They were stuck with this. The third had gotten away, a female by the build of her. And on zooming up, they made positive she was caucasion. She wasn't dressed like a patient. She was laughing in one frame, though. The absurd behavior made her look like she belonged with the residents of Van Hopper. Skinny. A drug addict, maybe.

"I dunno what that is. It looks like two guns, maybe? Big guns."

"The two perps wouldn't talk. They didn't explain their masks or why they had their pistols out. Their lawyer just came and that was that."

"Real tight family."

"It's the Joker. He takes care of it."

"Why do they even work for that crazy asshole?"

"Most people need to follow something."

"And some people are just fuckin' nuts."

"He attracts them, like flies to shit. Like to like. Like a damn mascot."

"I prefer the ones who dress up like Batman."

"They're all stupid, and they're all dangerous. Batman, the Joker, and their cult. Where do these freaks come from?"

"Gotham. Gotham manufactures the bastards."

6 Months Later

Midgets? They'd been infiltrated by almost a hundred of them! They wore metal helmets on their heads, like miniature Vikings. Some had horns. He woke up, surrounded by them, tied down to the gurney in his own warehouse.

"What?!" he screamed and fought a bit, but he just ended up laughing through his anger. "Too cute! Too cute!" he exclaimed.

She watched him from outside the halo of light. So helpless now, a symbol of destruction and anarchy, now disabled. How many lives had he ruined?

Her new family surrounded her, carrying weapons, supporting her in her apparent revenge.

She couldn't stop the smile that came when he began to laugh. And with his laughter, she found she could not help joining in with her own.

The echoing chuckle silenced him, "Who's that?"

He squinted into the dark. And then he looked into the faces of his captors, "I'm liking the headgear, little ones." – unmetered fury sparked through him – "Now let me go!" – and just as quick, it was gone, leaving a laugh in its wake.

"You are a beautiful piece of work," came a female voice.

It took him a moment. He canted his head to the side, "Is that… my pet?"

She smirked and came into the light, showing herself. Her arms he'd given her. Her hair now done up in a coil of tiny braids done by tiny hands.

"Could it be true?" his voice dropped to a whisper, mock surprise, "My, my. You've got me now, haven't you? Where have you been?" he tucked his chin down in disappointment, "Daddy's been looking for you."

She didn't want to stop the grin from her face, a match to his own carved-up semblance, "I've made some friends."

"I see that. Yes, yes. Well, I approve. Now, what's with this restraint? Surely, you can't be angry with me? Hmm? For making you beautiful."

She kept a soft smile for him.

Rage flashed across his visage, he suppressed it with an apparent force of will, "Let me up. Let's get comfortable. Tell me -- what you've been doing…"

Jurni approached his bedside, giving him a long look from his toes – now exposed – up to his face. He wore only pants now. And his makeup had been washed almost completely off.

"I'll tell you, but first I want to know who you paid to do this to me," she held up her metallic appendages, inspecting them herself in the fluorescent light.

He stared at them along with her, "Why? The job not good enough for you? Need a little work under the hood?"

"I _am_ glad you gave them to me -- whoever you are. Don't get me wrong…"

"Oh, I won't, sweet pea."

She smiled, "I'm sure."

"So, what do you want with my mechanical minded artist? Really? And again…" he paused for effect, showing her his hands, "Why the restraints? Don't you trust me?"

"I'm not setting you free just yet. There's something I've been meaning to get through to you."

"I expect it'll be fun," his tone went lower, "what with all these little guys and their costumes. You were special, believe me. But my friends, they experimented on you. You were the first. You're a prototype. Well, when you ran off… How could they know what they did wrong?"

"You talk too much. Joker? That's what you like to be called, right?"

"Has a ring to it," he smirked and sighed, relaxing in his restraints and letting out an impatient sigh, "So, talk yourself, if you don't want me talking."

"I don't talk much. I'm more about action."

He made a facial expression that amounted to agreement.

"You can leave," she said. He looked up. She'd been talking to her friends. They shuffled out of the light, away into the darkness until there was a sound of a distant door slamming.

She came close to his bedside and placed her metal hands on his chest. Goosebumps raised across his flesh at the coldness there. She strummed her fingers, rounded tabs of metal, until with a click, spikes sprang out like nails and she lefts dots of blood in her fingertips wake.

He looked up at her through lashes and smacked his jagged lip-line with his tongue, "Very beautiful."

She leaned over him, putting her face close to his. He strained up to meet her, not to kiss, but to hear. He cocked his ear towards her and she brushed her lips against it. He shivered visibly as he was wont to do when excited.

"You made me this way, you and your friends. Now, I want to thank them myself. Where are they?"

He cackled, a coughing sound caught in his throat as he pushed his cheek against hers in a very catlike way, "You think you can come in here, overrun me with your mass of midget men."

She stopped him there, "Some are female."

"Fair enough. Mass of midgetry."

She nodded to concede and he continued.

"Those runts haven't a thing on me. You think you can intimidate me into talking? I don't fear death or pain. I don't care about the things you people care about! Revenge?"

And then, he outright laughed at that. She moved away only slightly, staring at him right in his dark eyes. His fists clenched and he took a deep wiff of her. He looked back into her gaze, measuring her. Calculating. "Wait a minute. Wait." He muttered.

She began to smile. It started from one side of her mouth and spread to the other like a disease. He shook his head.

"Wait. I know that look. Was it too much, dolly? Did my ministrations really… finish the job?" – a pause as he considered – "That would explain the midgets."

"I was already there, Joker. I was just waiting…" she dragged her nails down his chest, one caught on his nipple and nearly ripped it free. He yelped and arched his back, "…for the inspiration."

"Oh, you're good," he murmured, sucking in a breath through his teeth, making a wet sound. An angry sound.


	4. harlequinn meet jurni

"Harlequinn. Harlequinn, come out and play!" he cackled. There was an immediate clatter of cans, hubcaps and junk. She spun to face the threat.

A life-sized doll in a jester outfit stumbled its way into the light. It was shaped in an exaggerated female form, big tits too firm to be silicon and wide hips rocking with each step. Its face was a perfect cupie doll grown up, except pale with painted black eyes and a cherry-red grin to match the Joker's. Its eyes were animalistic, too. Flat and dark. Like the Joker's, lacking only in that unmistakable, mad lust driven by intellect.

It came at her at first, unstable, as if waking. But as it approached, its movements became fluid and soon, it moved more like a human.

It stopped, staring at her.

"Sweet pea, this is Harlequinn. She's the newest version of you. I told my man that this was a better option anyway. Can't trust a real woman." He crowed at his own joke for a moment, before he gave the order, "Harlequinn, untie me. If she gets in your way, destroy her. Can you handle that?"

The robot only smiled in response and made her way to the Joker.

The Joker raised his eyebrows, "Seems like you two have something in common. Action over words."

But Jurni didn't let Harlequinn get close enough. She came at the robot from the side, a flying punch to the head. It never landed. She received a surprise blow from the unit, a solid jab to her chin that sent Jurni flying back to the ground.

"Destroy," Harlequinn repeated her parameters. Jurni shook her head to free it from the haze. She stood to her feet in time to get a well-placed kick to the stomach. She didn't fall, though.

She grabbed onto Harlequinn's head with both powerful hands and pulled with all her might. She began to turn, trying to get the robot off its feet, but Harlequinn fought back with the power of hydraulic machinery. Jurni was about to lose her own balance when she acted on impulse and used their momentum to send them both head over heel, leaving Jurni on top and bashing the shit out of Harlequinn's head into the concrete floor. Sparks flew, strange motorized whirring became screeching; there was smoke and then a dying buzz. Robotic arms and legs flailed as systems malfunctioned and it finally died an electric death. Harlequinn's plastic face melted from the internal burnout. A wheeze, a final spark and Harlequinn moved no more.

"Hmm," he sounded deflated.

Joker did not laugh this time. He looked puzzled as Jurni stood from her victory and turned to face him.

"That was entertaining. Not what I was expecting."

She shrugged and let her smile return, "Me, neither."

He stared at her, "Now, what?"

"You have any more tricks?" she asked, a little out of breath, catching her bearings after the adrenaline rush.

"You mean more Harlequinn?" he asked, peeking around her to get a glimpse of the broken attack doll.

"Yup."

"She was one of a kind," he sighed up at her as she stood at his bedside. He was getting really tired of being tied down.

"I understand that you are crazy."

He glowered and couldn't resist, "See, you're wrong there."

"I am?"

"Very wrong," he shook his head. His tone had changed completely. Serious.

"Why would you think you're not?"

He tilted his chin up as if about to lecture her, "I have code."

"You operate outside the normal behavior of humankind."

He narrowed his eyes, "You could say that, but that's not crazy, lovely. That's thinking ahead."

Jurni mulled that over for a bit. He gave a quick little nod as if to encourage her enlightenment. She gave half a shrug, "Maybe. The point is, you don't find thrills where most people find thrills."

"True. What're you driving at, by the way? I'm needing to scratch a very sensitive area. It's getting itchy. Can't do that all tied up."

"A sensitive area?"

He rolled his head around, "Well, yes. Quite. Unless you'd like to…" he began, poking out his lower jaw and then tucking it back in, "…take care of it."

"That's actually what I was driving at, Mr. Joker."

"_Mister _Joker?" he quirked.

"Has a ring to it," she insisted.

"Master, maybe. Not mister."

"At any rate, I'd be happy to scratch an itch for you. That's exactly what I came to discuss with you anyway."

"What? My genital area needing attention?" his voice rose comically, laced with high-pitched laughter.

She waited a beat, then -- "Perhaps."

His eyes widened and slowly, so slowly, his head cocked to the left and he stared at her as if she'd just grown a pair of horns.

Jurni's eyes traced down from his to his exposed chest and then to the thread-like blood lines she'd left on the skin there, the bright red rose of his nipple, torn in half. The drops beading up like stitches through the cuts.

"This isn't about revenge, is it?" he sounded delighted. She met his gaze once more. She shook her head.

"Well, wow, wow," was all he said at first. She put her hands back on his body, starting at his shoulders, kneading the muscles there. She couldn't feel anything, just the solidity of his form, not the warmth or his pulse. He spoke under her absent-minded ministrations, "What've you got for me, then? I hope you're proposing. You know I'm not that kind of a girl." He batted his lashes.

She couldn't bring herself to smile at that, so entranced was she in his body, in the complicated world that it housed. Down to the fastening of his pants.

His breathing sped up, like a captured animal.

She was triggering something in him, something new. He was acting afraid all of a sudden. Why? Surely he didn't fear her maiming him? He was like no other man alive. But in this, could he really be the same? Did he fear this? The possibility of her castrating him, ruining him there? That was a strange possibility.

"I have all night with you," she heard herself say.

He frowned then, glared at her, "What do you expect of me, sweat pea?"

She opened the fly to reveal dark, curly hair and a half-hard penis… And how viciously it had been scarred. She arched a brow.

He finally let out a signature laugh, throwing his head back, "What did you expect?" he called out with hilarity, "Are you here to scare me? Or fuck me?"

She gave him look then, "You think it's impossible to do either, don't you?"

His voice dropped from that insane, whiny pitch as he dipped his chin down and looked up at her, "Sugar plum, I have learned… Nothing's impossible." He tilted his head, curious and calm.

"You have a death wish," she pointed out, unsure why she'd said it, following impulses laid out in her mind like a rabbit trail.

He rattled off without pause, "I have a wish for fun. A fun wish. Test me! That's what this is about, I realized, by the way. Power."

"No, no, no," she responded as she slid her metal hand down to his waning manhood and stroked there until she actuated the spike from her fingertip and firmly took a hold of him. He hissed, and wanted to buck, but didn't, "I want only to see how far we can go."

He looked confused for a moment, baring his teeth, glancing from her shiny hand around him back to her placid face, "Come here," he ordered.

She didn't hesitate. She moved her upper body closer to his, bending down as she'd done before. So close she could feel his heat through her top.

"I won't kill you," he assured her, a waver to his voice that spoke of how close to laughter he was. His breath was on her neck now. She tensed as he urged her, "Let me show you how far we can go."

"I just need a teacher," she uttered, again startled by her own confession, carried away in a foreign power that pumped through her body and mind.

"I see now," he told her, and after only a split second's thought, she let go his cock and cut through his restraints in two slices with her mechanical arms. He didn't spring on her like she'd anticipated. She held her breath as they met eyes. He sat up on the gurney, slowly.

"On your knees," he muttered.

She dropped before him onto her knees.

Just at that moment, there was a commotion outside. Gunshots. She sprang to her feet. He only leaned to the side to see around her at the door.

Masked gunmen. Angry midgets in Viking helmets. It was a unique sight.

She ran toward them, but didn't get far. She was tackled from behind. Her head bounced against the warehouse floor. Stars blasted through her vision. She couldn't hear much of anything but a ringing. Her vision was blurred.

Even in this state, she fought. Her powerful arms overcame the Joker with no problem. She rolled on top of him, a fistful of his green hair in her hand. He grabbed at her hips and rolled. He gained the advantage and offered a powerful blow of his fist to her already bruised face.

Shots glanced off walls and I-beams. There was shouting. Then, sirens. The party broke up. The Joker knew when it was time to leave. He stood from his fight and ran, ignoring the gashes she left in his sides, the blood that poured freely from him.

"We'll be together soon, my dear," he cackled, already disappeared from view. He was quick. It made her wonder briefly if he'd had the genius who'd done work on her also install those reflex implants on the Joker. Yeah, they'd done more to her than upgrade her arm-ware.

Right now, the world was fuzzy. Harlequinn had already taken her down a notch and those blows to the head made her woozy. Lights swirled as she struggled to stand and lurch towards the back stairs.

They were already there, though. The police. Joker's henchmen must've overrun her security and started an attention-attracting gunfight. Must've been more clowns in reserves than she'd anticipated. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Provided there'd be an "again". She smiled at the memory of their exchange, even as the men in blue surrounded her, weapons drawn. She raised her arms. They screamed "Drop your weapons" and she laughed at that.

"They're not weapons," Earn said to Vincent as his partner shuffled into the office. It was almost dawn. They were both worn and tired. Earn scooted the pictures of their prisoner towards the man, "They're prosthetics. Harmless, as far as we can tell, but remarkable in design. Way ahead of the times."

"What's her name?"

"Dunno. No matches."

"She won't cooperate?"

"Won't give us a name, where she's from, nothin'."

"You said there were bodies."

"Plenty of 'em. Half of 'em were midgets."

"No shit?"

Earn shook his head.

Vincent stared at the crime scene photos, "I'm sorry I missed it."

"Yeah, damn those off days, huh?"

He shuffled through the images, "Really. How many times does a guy get to see a midget massacre?"

"I'm sure that's what the press would love to call it."

"What're they callin' it?"

"Haven't read the paper today. Too busy with this one," he nodded toward the pictures of Jurni.

"She's not said anything at all, then?"

"Got a female officer in there now, askin' some general questions, just to see if that'll work…"

"I got it," came a voice across the office. A few cops turned, most just continued with their paper work.

Detectives Earn and Vincent recognized the voice. Matt, the rookie, jogged up to them, "I thought I recognized her!"

He laid an old picture of their mystery girl in front of them. It was from the newspaper.

"Jurni Caulin," Vincent read.

"The Joker's bomb girl?!" Earn couldn't believe it.

"Frickin' wild, huh?" Matt's eyes were wide, so happy was he with himself.

"And now she's in a warehouse with midgets and Joker's men all shot to hell?"

"Sounds like some kinda motive."

"And what about those arms?"

"Sounds like a helluva explanation if we can get it out of her."

"The doc says she's probably unstable upstairs."

"Makes sense, after what she's had to have been through. The bomb. The recovery. The arms. Matt," – the rookie perked up – "Get us everything you can on this woman, every detail of her life, people she knew, where she was born, her habits. Everything about everyone she's connected to."

"Even the Joker?" the younger man asked.

"Even him. And while you're at it, get information on the victims from the shootout. I'm interested in the 'little people'. I want their motive. I want the connection between them and her," he pointed at the newspaper picture of Jurni Caulin.


End file.
